Southern trees bear strange fruit.
     There's blood on the leaves,
     There's blood at the roots.
     Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze;
     There's strange fruit hanging from the poplar tree.

     The scenic view of the quiet south;
     Those bulging eyes, the twisted mouth.
     The scent of magnolia comes as sweet and fresh.
     Suddenly: the stench of black burning flesh.
     Now here my friends,
     Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck.
     A tear for the rain to gather;
     The roaring wind to suck.
     For the sun to rise,
     And those trees to drop:
     And I hear there's a strange and bitter crop.